


bleed me a river

by tooshyforthis



Series: good girls ficlets [1]
Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Everything Hurts, F/M, Grief/Mourning, POV Beth Boland, Post-Season/Series 02, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:48:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22533502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tooshyforthis/pseuds/tooshyforthis
Summary: Sometimes, right before she wakes up, he whispers “Elizabeth” with that garbled sound, and it’s so soft and yet so sharp, it cuts her open every time.--My take on Rio's come back from the dead, Pre-Season 3 airing.
Relationships: Annie Marks & Beth Boland & Ruby Hill, Beth Boland/Rio
Series: good girls ficlets [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1984082
Comments: 27
Kudos: 113





	bleed me a river

**Author's Note:**

> this is just a little fic about what could happen after 2x13 (but obviously won't)  
> figured i'd post it while it was still canon-compliant lol

After the… she doesn’t know what to call it, because The Incident seems too light, like she’s joking about one of the other PTA moms going ballistic over the food options at an event, but she can’t quite get up the courage to say “after she shot him” because that’s - well, _because_. It makes the weight in her chest feel like too much, like she won’t ever breathe again. So, she mostly just trails off, leaves it at “after”.

 _After_ , she cries herself to sleep. The nightmares don’t start right away, she gets a few blessed nights of no dreams, just a black hole of nothingness. But when they do – _oh god_ , there is so much blood. She didn’t know a human being could bleed that much, but it pours out of the gaping wounds on his chest, gurgles in his throat, unrelenting, making that awful noise that leaves her wishing she could just curl up and fade away. But she doesn’t get to do that, of course. She has to stare as he bleeds a river for her, _because of her_ , with that look in his eyes – a man, betrayed. Sometimes, right before she wakes up, he whispers _“Elizabeth”_ with that garbled sound, and it’s so _soft_ and yet so sharp, it cuts her open every time.

She stops going to the park, finds a new one that is only a couple more minutes away by car, dodges the questions her kids throw her way, the _why_ of it. She doesn’t have to change her routine at all to avoid the bar or his place, and she thanks the heavens that there’s at least _that_ going for her, doesn’t know what she’d do if she had to cross those streets on her way to drop off the kids.

She takes a few weeks to get used to it, always being one breath away from a breakdown, trying to hold herself together _so precisely_ and pretend like nothing has changed. And then she’s back in business. Because she stills needs the money, because there is still a mortgage to pay and food to be put on the table; because it gives her a thrill, too – because it has to mean _something_ , because otherwise there was no point to any of it.

Their operation is nowhere the size of his – it’s just the three of them, first in her kitchen and laundry room, then in the back of their brand-new store. And it goes well, they make the money they need, more even, and she feels proud, wants to celebrate. So, they do Girl’s Night, properly, like they haven’t in months, going out to a new hip bar Annie learned about on some social media site Beth didn’t even know existed until then. They get drunk on cosmos, because she’s not really into bourbon that much anymore, share stories that have already been shared a million times over but are no less funny for it and laugh and – and it’s good; she feels _good_. And maybe that’s why she can’t stop thinking about how, once upon a time, maybe he would’ve been proud of her too and she – _god_ , she wishes she could make him proud now; wishes none of this had ever happened, that he hadn’t pulled too much when she wasn’t ready, that the rope had never snapped. But he’s not here to be proud of her, so she goes for the next best thing.

The bar is just as crowded as that first night she was here, when she brought Dean and then – _and then_ , no point in thinking about it too much – but she still manages to find herself a spot by the bar, sits in one of those too-tall stools, her feet not quite touching the ground. Freaks out about the bartender recognizing her from those times she was here with him and then chuckles at herself, realizes how ridiculous that is, because it’s not even the same one, _of course it isn’t_. Orders herself their cheapest bourbon and most expensive vodka, _neat_ , because she thinks he would’ve liked that small punishment. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he would’ve just been _seething_ , thinking of how this _bitch_ put him 6 feet under and then had the nerve to pour one out for him, like it’s not her fault. He wouldn’t have put the _boss_ in front of it, either.

She nurses her drink, quiet, looking around but not really paying attention, until she spots him across the bar, mouth going dry and breaths coming short. But then he turns around and – and it’s not _him_ , of course it isn’t, it’s just another skinny guy with a buzzcut, just like all the other times. If the relief feels bitter on her tongue, that’s only for her to know. She figures that’s her cue to leave, pays her bill and asks the bartender to pour the vodka down the drain; figures it’s best if she leaves it at that.

But then she can’t. It’s like the floodgates are open, and now that she knows she’s not broken by it, going to the bar isn’t forbidden and it’s staying away that’s hard. She still could never imagine going back to the park or stepping foot in his place, can’t quite figure out if it’s worse if the blood stain is still there _or not_ , because then someone had to clean it and – _she doesn’t even know who that someone could be_. No, those places are still out of limits, probably always will be, but _this_ – this one she can do, and maybe that’s good, maybe it means she’s healing or something.

So, she keeps going back. The next Saturday morning without the kids she goes to the bar, when it’s mostly empty, orders the exact same thing; feels herself be broken into a million little pieces and then put back together again every time his vodka is poured down the drain. This is absolution and forgiveness and punishment, all rolled into one, and she figures if it stills hurts, it’s because she deserves it. She stills sees him everywhere, that doesn’t stop, but maybe that’s good too, means he meant something, means she’s not completely without morals or feelings.

She does a lot of thinking on those visits. Just sits quietly, processing whatever issue she’s stuck on. Sometimes, she likes to imagine what his answer would be, whether he’d give her advice on what to do. Every time she gets stuck, can’t figure it out, forgets the exact cadence of his voice, it’s like a punch to the gut. Because, why would she? _She didn’t know him_. Those days are somehow harder and easier to get through. It doesn’t hurt quite as much that he’s gone then, because you can’t miss what you don’t know. But then, the ache is so much worse, thinking that he never deemed her worthy to share with, that in the end he was right not to.

It’s been a couple of months now, and she’s a regular at the bar, basically, by any definition of regular, doesn’t even have to order anymore because the bartender knows what she’ll ask. And then, one day, instead of her drinks being handed over silently, there’s “Boss-man upgraded you to the _Old Blowhard_.”

And that’s different, breaks routine enough to break her out of her thoughts. She stares up at him, brows wrinkled in confusion, and only just manages to open her mouth to ask him to repeat himself when he interrupts.

“Says it’s a waste for you to throw that good vodka down the drain and get yourself that garbage to drink”, he shrugs then, unbothered, “he figures you’ve paid enough by now that you can get upgraded, just this once.”

And, well, isn’t that _something_ , because she tries her best to make sure no one pays attention to her and there’s usually only a couple of other people, and none of them seem like they could be the boss. And yet. “That’s - that is very nice of your boss, but no, thank you.” And he looks at her with this unimpressed, pitying look on his face, like he knows Beth can do better than that, but she doesn’t know how to explain herself, really, because how do you justify turning away good _free_ bourbon, how do you say you’re punishing yourself with cheap booze, that’s – _ridiculous_ , that’s what it is. So… “The vodka is – it’s for a friend, and he has expensive taste, that’s all. I’m fine with what I ordered.” Even giggles a little bit, because maybe that way he won’t notice the way her voice is breaking.

“A friend, uh?” But of course, he does. “Why you always alone, then?”

And there’s no good explanation for that, no way she can lie herself out of this situation, so she just shrugs and puts on her most sickly-sweet smile, says “The bourbon I ordered is just fine, _thank you_.” Puts as much emphasis as she can on those words and hopes it’s enough.

When he finally puts her bourbon down in front of her, she drinks it all in one go, drops the money on the counter and leaves, doesn’t even say a word. She figures he knows enough by now to pour the vodka out for her.

And then, that’s her new normal. The bartender, _Carl_ , according to his nametag, always has a comment about how the _boss-man_ , whoever that even is, she still hasn’t figured it out, has the _Old Blowhard_ ready for her to enjoy whenever she wants. It starts to piss her off, a little, that this man keeps being so insistent when she obviously also is, but then she figures she has better things to be angry about. No point in harbouring resentment for this man she doesn’t even know, who’s ostensibly trying to be nice to her. So, she settles for gritting out through her teeth that the one she drinks _is fine, really_. Even tells Carl to send that message along to his boss, but that doesn’t seem to stop the offer from coming.

And then, she could’ve kept doing _that_. It’s fine, really, not much different than before. Until Carl says that the _boss-man_ is really interested in talking to this lady who keeps turning down perfectly good booze and that’s – that, she’s not ready for. Doesn’t want to have to lie to another person and see the pity in their eyes when they figure out what she really means, it’s already bad enough with Carl.

So, she downs her drink in one go, _again_ , gathers her things, is about to leave when she barrels into a hard chest. If she doesn’t fall on her ass, it’s only because the man she slammed into manages to catch her by the waist. She closes her eyes, does her best to compose herself, to control the panic clawing at her throat. Tells herself it’s fine, _it’s fine_. But it doesn’t get better when she opens her eyes and fixes them on the stranger’s neck, on the dark lines there. And it’s only worse when she raises her eyes to his. There’s the weight on her chest, heavier than ever, not letting her breathe. And then, a warm hand caressing her cheek, making the weight lighter, so much easier to bear.

“You look good, ma. Now let’s have that drink, _yeah_?”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading!!  
> this is un-beta'd so if there's any mistakes, i'm sorry  
> feel free to leave a comment to flail with me about how close s3 is or to offer up constructive criticism or whatever really


End file.
